


Santa with a soccer ball

by aquinique



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Boys In Love, M/M, Natasha is Clint's sister, Nick is dad, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5574796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquinique/pseuds/aquinique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton, the enfant terrible of the school soccer team, is in love with Phillip Coulson. Also his hair is electric blue, because nobody told him that purple isn't his color. It all comes down to one problem: what to give Phil for Secret Santa?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clint, this is not some anime!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that not all of you really know much about soccer, so this is what soccer juggling looks like. It is used for improving ball control and keeping kids busy :P  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCl2UH00fhA

          Standing on the bench in the changing room Tony put his hands on his hips and looked at his teammates expectantly. “So where’s Clint?”

Bruce lifted his head from binding his shoelaces, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I think he’s harassing some classmates?” he trailed off thoughtfully.

“What? Again? What’s up his ass this time?” Tony groused. Throwing up his arms he scowled. “I’m supposed to be the enfant terrible of this team!” he howled, playing the part of a spoiled diva to the dot.

He scoffed, when he caught the stares of his teammates.

“He can’t play anyway, so why should he be here?” Ward grumbled from the opposite bench under his breath.

“Ouch, that hurt!” responded a voice coming from the door. Ward looked up and wrinkled his nose, when he had seen that it was indeed Clint Barton. Instead of playing gear he was dressed in his casual clothes, meaning he had ripped jeans, ancient t-shirt and a leather jacket. His hair was a total mess and in general he looked in Ward’s opinion like something the cat dragged in.

Ignoring the exchange, Tony hopped off the bench, pointing his finger at Clint and asked accusingly.

“Where had you been?”

Clint shrugged and walked into the changing room casually with his hands stuck in his pockets. There, he kicked up one of the balls on the floor and started juggling with it.

Staring at his teammate juggling with perfect control even in such closed space, Tony whined. “Baaaarton, where were you?”

Still maintaining the control over the ball bobbing up and down in the air, Barton shrugged again. “Places?”

Seeing that it was a futile effort to ask when his teammate didn’t want to answer, Tony sat down opposite to him observing the ball jumping softly from one leg to the other, then on the knee and back.

“Is that OK to do?” Tony asked curiously, daring to voice what everybody in the changing room was probably thinking about.

“Just sprained ankle, won’t die of it…Besides, disciplinary actions, can’t play four matches anyway…”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Not sprained, kicked through.”

“Same difference,” Clint wrinkled his nose and actually winced as the ball bounced against said ankle.

“Ah, I can’t watch you hurting yourself,” Tony howled, covering his eyes dramatically. Then, when Clint didn’t expect it, he quickly shot up from the bench and grabbed the ball in mid-air, neatly avoiding Clint’s foot. Laughing gleefully he tucked the ball under his arm and ran outside hollering victoriously.

Tearing his hands out of his pockets Barton flipped a bird, walking out after him. “Fuck you, Stark!”

Steve followed them. When he caught up with Clint, he looked at him meaningfully. “Be carefull. We need you on that pitch.” He motioned with his head towards the playground.

Clint looked in the same direction and shrugged, like it didn't matter. Seeing his indiference, Steve took a breath to argue, but then let it out with a huff. If Clint was in one of _those_ moods, arguing with him wouldn't help anything.

Clint stuck his hands into his pockets and without a word walked away. Watching after him with a concerned frown, Steve almost didn't notice, when Skye joined him.

“Aren’t you too hard on him?" she asked reproachfully. "He’s careful, juggling only with his good foot and stuff.”

Still watching after his wayward teammate limping away, Steve explained tiredly. “Standing on the injured ankle actually puts bigger strain on it than juggling with it.”

Skye gasped shocked. “Why would he do that? What if the injury becomes permanent?”

Steve made a pained expression. He didn’t understand the rebellious player any more than she did.


	2. The plan of attack

          When not having training, there wasn’t much that Clint could actually do, so he returned home and stretched out on the bed. He hated inactivity, but he had to admit that his ankle still hurt too much to play. It was annoying as hell. With a scowl he lifted his foot up to lessen the throbbing.

Once it subsided a little and he could breathe easily again (walking home probably wasn’t the best idea), he searched the pockets of his jacket for a small paper. Lifting it above his head he held it carefully and unfolded.

There were only two words written on it: Phillip Coulson.

Clint stared at it mesmerized. It took some work and some convincing, but he was finally having Phillip as his assignment for Secret Santa. Although Santa was never really secret, Clint didn’t know who Coulson’s assignment was and he was almost burning from curiosity. But as far as Clint could tell, Coulson didn’t tell anyone, probably because it was against the rules of the exchange.

Letting his hand fall on the bed Clint stared at the ceiling and dreamed what it would be like to be Coulson’s assignment, to have his attention for himself. Everybody knew that Coulson was freaking smart, so Clint was sure that he would give some awesome and thoughtfull presents; never mind that Clint would be happy with just about anything, as long as it came from Coulson himself.

          Clint could usually observe Coulson only from afar, because Coulson was too smart for them to share any lessons. Apart from being smart, he was also so handsome. Clint thought that knights probably used to look a lot like Coulson. Even his name sounded like it belonged to a knight or something - Phillip Coulson.

Now Phillip was his assignment and Clint wanted to give him something really special. There was only one catch: he had no savings, so he needed to find a job. Normally, he wouldn’t actually have time to work in between trainings and matches, but with his injured ankle benching him he could find a brief job and earn some extra cash. If he worked the whole three days break plus the weekend, he had 5 days, which should be more than enough to earn some cash for Phillip’s present and also new training shoes, which Clint desperately needed.

Money question solved. Actually, thinking about it, there was another setback. He didn't know Phillip that well, or rather at all. Sure, Clint could probably recite his daily schedule and lunch-breaks (in a totally non-stalkerish way), but that wouldn’t really help him to pick a great present for him. Maybe adding Coulson on Facebook wouldn’t be a bad idea, only…Clint had no Facebook and creating one for the three people in his team who tolerated him seemed pointless. Not to mention that it would be pathetically too obvious. And what if Phillip didn’t recognize him at all and wouldn’t approve his friend request? Clint didn’t think he could survive that. Or even worse, what if Coulson didn’t want to talk to Clint because he was scared of him just like everybody else?

Clint jumped out of his bed and quickly hobbled to a mirror in the bathroom, where he studied himself. How did other people see him? Well, his image probably wasn’t the best. First of all, his hair was purple, because fuck you, system. He was Clint motherfucking Hawkeye Barton, on his way to the national soccer team and purple was his brand; he didn’t care what other people thought about it, because fuck people too. But….still, he did care what Phillip thought. Also, wasn’t purple a little tacky for a guy? What if Coulson didn’t like it?

Turning his head, Clint observed himself critically. It this light, the purple made him look slightly sickly, even pale. God, why nobody told him that purple wasn’t his color! Maybe Natasha had something to wash the color out? Clint desperately rummaged in his sister’s bathroom stuff. Peroxide….that should do it! He stared at the bottle resolutely. Then looked at himself in the mirror. Desperate situations called for desperate measures! He thought decisively and poured the contents of the bottle all over his head, scrubbing fiercely to get the purple color out.

~*~*~*~

          When Natasha had seen him that evening by dinner, she started laughing. At least Nick didn’t say anything, just lifted his eyebrows meaningfully.

Instead of talking about the disaster that his hair was, Nick dug into his potatoes and talking around them he informed Clint. “Hill called asking if you want to help out, they’re moving a house tomorrow and could use the help. You interested?”

Clint nodded, trying not to be too eager. Hill was strict, but she paid ok, better than agencies. This finding a job thing was working out faster than he imagined.

"Your ankle up to it?" Nick asked in his usual straight-forward fashion.

Clint shrugged. "Sure." He said simply. Thankfully, the ankle stopped throbbing after a short rest.

Nick nodded. “Ok, you start tomorrow at eight. I’ll drive you to the address on my way to groceries. Natasha will pick you up when you finish.”

Clint scowled, but didn't argue, because he didn’t want to risk his chances of earning some money. From the suspicious glare Nick gave him, the lack of reaction unsettled him.

“So why do you need the money then?”

Clint winced, if Nick didn’t push the issue, he could always count on his terrible sister to do it.

“None of your business!” he snarled.

“You’re my little brother, I must take care of you,” she said with a teeth-rotting sweet smile.

“Fuck you!” Clint spat.

Nick rolled his one good eye, setting his cutlery down. “Could you not, at least during the dinner?” he growled. Clint sullenly looked into his food, avoiding Natasha’s eyes, because he was sure to burst out, if he did. She always seemed to be nosily invested in his life.

“So why do you need the money?” Nick’ s question caused him to raise his head in alarm finding Nick staring at him intently. Squirming in his seat, Clint shrugged. He didn’t really feel like discussing his slight obsesion with Phillip Coulson during family dinner. Or ever, if possible. His silence, however, didn’t seem satisfactory.

“Clint?” he was prompted again. Clint felt his face draw into a scowl. He will not be discussing this with his father and sister. Period.

“Does this have anything to do with Santa being drawn at school today?” Natasha smirked at him knowingly.

Oh, he couldn’t wait when she would be finally going to some Uni or whatever.

Nick sighed. “It’s that time of year again?”

“You mean time of cheesy carols, hypocrisy and consumerism?” Natasha said bitingly.

“Yes, I indeed meant Christmas.” Nick snorted and dug into his food again, while Natasha smiled at him sweetly. The rest of the evening nobody mentioned the question of Clint needing money.


	3. Nobody said it was easy

          The next day, when Clint got out of Nick's car in front of the house to be moved, the crew was already there bringing a lot of empty boxes in. Oh, ok, this one was bound with packing too. Good, it meant he would work longer hours without actually tiring himself too much. Plus, he was good at Tetris-packing things.

He passed the first guys from the group and greeted them. He knew most of them from previous jobs, though he wouldn't consider them as friends.

First of all, he needed to find Hill, so she could tell Clint what his task was. He almost stumbled on the front steps when he passed by the doorbell with the tag Coulson. His heart sped up. That was ridiculous! There were surely plenty of Coulsons in the vicinity, no particular reason to believe that this were his Coulsons.

Usually, the inhabiting families were already gone, sometimes the father of the house remained back to check on the works and progress, so what he didn’t expect was to come face to face with Phillip Coulson. _His_ Phillip!

“Clint?” Phillip gasped out, seeming to be at least as shocked as Clint himself and damn, Clint would probably have a fit later because Phillip knew his name!! But for the moment he remained stupefied.

“Yeah, huh, came to move your house…” Then his mood turned sour, as he blurted out. “I didn’t know you’re moving away.”

Phillip loooked surprised. “Yeah…to another city part. Dad remarried, so we need a bigger house…” Phillip shrugged. “Not a big deal, even staying at the same school.”

Hearing the good news, Clint’s mood instantaneously brightened. “Cool!”

Phillip smiled back, opening the door wider for Clint to come in. He closed the door and they remained standing behind it looking at each other awkwardly.

“Sorry, didn’t expect you here.” Phillip said nervously. Looking at Clint, his gaze landed on Clint’s head. Clint blushed. “Your hair’s…” Phillip started, gazing at it fascinated. “…different,” he finished faintly, a small grin tugging at his lips.

Clint grimaced. “You mean blue?”

Phil shrugged, still valiantly fighting his laughter. “Well, yes, it’s really _blue_. I thought your color is purple.”

Clint couldn’t help but touch his electric blue hair self-consciously. “Don’t even ask.” He huffed theatrically and rolled his eyes.

“Barton!” A female voice called out, catching them surprised. Clint turned to his boss, who was standing in the living room door, looking at him expectantly.

“Yes, boss?” he said quickly, to soften her temper.

“Good that you’re here, we’re behind the schedule.”

Clint winced, already behind the schedule didn’t sound that great.

Phillip peeked over Clint’s shoulder at Hill. “I was actually thinking Clint here might help me pack up my stuff. I haven’t managed yet.”

Hill looked both of them suspiciously. Gazing for a few long seconds, while Clint literally felt sweat rolling down his back, she squinted at last and said. “Ok. Go and help Phil. When you finish, come in the living room, we’ll be packing the furniture.” She disappeared in the room again, leaving them standing alone although the whole house was actually swarming with activity and there were sounds of furniture and stuff being dismantled from every corner.

“C’mon, before she comes back,” Phillip spurred Clint, leading him to a room in the back of the house that was looking over a small garden in the backyard. It was surprisingly quiet there.

When Clint entered the room, he immediately drank in the sight. He had never expected that he would actually have the chance to see Phillip’s room. He was so excited to be there that his heart felt like it was trying to beat out of his chest. So this was where Phillip slept, studied and… Clint blushed furiously… all the other stuff.

The room was quite surprisingly ordinary: it was in soft shades of blue with some hints of white and red. Clint was standing in the middle of it, trying to etch it into his memory. He jerked guiltily when Phillip closed the door behind him and coughed awkwardly.

“So, this is my room.” Phillip said, bashfully leaning against the door. With his body he was partially hiding a poster of Captain America on the door.

“Your room seems…very…patriotic.” Clint grinned.

Phillip blushed. “I’m a Captain America fan.”

Sweeping quickly over the bookcase, Clint could definitely say that this was true. There were countless comics bound into books, which were carefully labeled and ordered methodically.

“Hey, Cap’s pretty cool.” Clint said quickly, when he saw Phillip’s face falling. “Haven’t read that many, but he seems cool.”

“I can show you some of my favorites…when you like. Some of the stories are great.” Phillip beamed at him.

“Yeah, that’d be great. Not now, though. Hill’d have my ass if we’re not packing.”

“Yeah, sure. Forgot about her.” Phillip grinned sheepishly. Looking around himself, he sighed. “There’s still so much.” The room was indeed brimming with unpacked stuff. “With _that_ I can help!” Clint said victoriously. “Just bring more boxes.”

“Aye, aye, captain!” Phil shot up straight, saluting playfully. He gazed at Clint straight, the corners of his mouth twitching. At last they both burst out laughing.

Once they started packing, silence fell around them. They were methodically trying to warp Phil’s impressive collection of Captain America into plastic before putting it into boxes.

When Hill checked upon them later, she scowled slightly, but didn’t say anything. When she left, Phil glanced at the door to make that she was really gone, before stating. “She’s pretty scary.”

Clint shrugged. “She’s OK.” She gave him a job when he was broke and new kid in town and his hair was purple, which meant she was OK in Clint’s books.

“Surprised to see you here. Thought you're playing a match today. I had seen the last one. Never knew that soccer can be so intense.”

Intense was one way of saying that Clint was carried off the pitch on a stretcher.

“You were awesome and the fouling guy deserved a yellow card!” Phil exclaimed heatedly.

“He got a yellow,” Clint reminded him drily.

“Oh,” Phil’s face fell.

“You meant a red card?” Clint tried curiously.

“Ah, yes! Red!” Phil exclaimed passionately, his whole face going crimson.

Clint laughed. “Don’t know much about soccer, do you?”

Phil scowled. “I tried to read the rules, but…” he shrugged.

“Rules are boring, let me show you the game some time.” Clint offered, then clammed his mouth shut. Sweet Jesus, did he just offer the smartest guy in the whole year, if not the school, to show him soccer?

Phil stared at him.

Clint stared back, feeling his throat tighten. “Or not.” He shrugged.

“We’re moving, there probably won’t be time,” Phil explained. He sounded like he was sorry, but Clint had had too many people in his life sorry on his behalf, he was sick of it.

“Right,” he pushed out through his teeth. He closed the box in front of him resolutely and picked it up. “I’ll take this into the yard, to the car.”

“I’ll help you,” Phil shot up, but Clint heaved the box up. “Nah, I can manage.”

“No, let me…” Phil quickly passed by Clint, opening the doors for him. Clint nodded his thanks. Instead of remaining behind, Phil walked by his side through the entire house.

“Should you be even carrying such heavy things with your ankle?” Phil asked, or rather babbled. Clint scowled, because unlike in the morning, his ankle really did throb and was sending all kinds of signals telling him that walking around with heavy loads was a stupid idea.

“It’s fine,” Clint gritted out, trying to walk as confidently as possible, while his leg was probably consumed by infernal fire.

“Sure?” Phil worried his lip as he held the front door open to let Clint pass.

Clint was glad to let the guys at the car take the heavy load from his hands. He leaned a little forward, catching his breath. “Yeah, sure.” He pushed out.

“Wow, I wouldn’t probably even lift the box, it was pretty heavy,” Phillip still babbled and while Clint was flattered, combined with the fire in his foot he wished that he would stop at least for a moment. Scrunching his face, he growled. “No, you probably wouldn’t.” Suddenly, Phillip’s babbling stopped. “I’ll go and pack the rest.” He announced in detached voice and from the corner of his eye Clint could see him walk away. Fuck! Way to go, Barton.

He could see Hill and Phil briefly talk at the entrance. Then Hill came up to him. “Phil said you’re already finished in his room, so come and help us in the living room.”

Clint straightened up. “Ok.” He mumbled and followed her.

The doors to Phil’s room, which wasn’t fully packed by far, remained closed the whole time Clint was in the house.

*~*~*

          When Clint returned that night back home, he was beat, every muscle in his body screamed with pain and his ankle was so swollen that if his coach saw it, he would probably kill him.

Grabbing an ice-pack on his way to his room Clint threw himself down on his bed and pushed the blissfully cold thing to his pulsing leg. Sighing in relief for the first time in the whole day, he lifted his leg on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

He took out the money from his pocket and stared at it. With works dragging quite late, he had earned more than he expected, which was great, because he didn’t really have much time to earn something extra next to his trainings and matches. He had barely scraped time for school and homework. If he wasn't so afraid of Nick, he would have quit already, but his guardian seemed to pay him extra attention to preventthat. He was even in close contact with Clint's teachers, but he also went to most of Clint’s matches, which was more than anyone had done before for Clint. It was always different when Fury was watching, Clint felt like he could bring his game to the next level just to make his old man nod in approval. He had never noticed that Phillip was looking too. Bad mood wrapped around him like a cloak by the thought of Phillip. Shit, he was such an asshole. Now Phillip probably hated him, because Clint basically said that he was a wimp. And Clint didn’t even mean it!

There was a knock on the door. At first he thought of ignoring it, but then the door actually opened without his consent and Natasha stood in the doorway with a tray of food and a new ice-pack.

“Long day?” she asked unusually gently as she kicked the door closed.

Clint blinked at her stupidly and nodded. She sat down on the bed next to him and exchanged the ice pack on his ankle for a new one.

“You should have bandaged it.” She chided him.

Clint shrugged. It didn’t really hurt when he was walking before, so he forgot about a bandage.

“I’ll bring you something for it. Eat up now.” She walked to the door, but when he didn’t move on the bed, she turned back in the door and growled. “I mean it, Barton. Eat up before it gets cold.” Her voice meant business, so Clint reluctantly sat up and started messing with the food. Despite the fact that he didn’t have the time to grab a proper bite of anything almost the whole day, he wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. Natasha returned from the kitchen with a gel and a new bandage. She surprisingly gently lifted his foot from the pillows and tenderly laid it into her lap.

He stopped making mess of the dinner and looked at her curiously.

“What’s going on?” he asked hoarsely, slightly worried after all.

She shrugged, uncapping the gel and pouring some on his ankle.

“Natasha?” he asked again, this time getting really worried.

Massaging the healing gel gently into his ankle, she briefly looked at him, pursed her lips and then smiled sadly. “You’ve grown up, ‘s all.”

“Kids always grow up.” He said simply, because nothing else came to his tired mind.

“Yeah, they do,” she said thoughtfully and started bandaging the foot expertly. “I’d ask how the ankle feels, but I think it’s obvious."

“I forgot, OK?” Clint groused, feeling more comfortable, because this, this he knew.

She slapped him just above the ankle, far from the injury, but not far enough to not make him yelp in surprise. “Idiot. How can you forget about your ankle that was kicked-through.”

“It didn’t hurt in the morning,” Clint defended himself weakly, feeling getting sleepier by the minute. She growled, but didn’t chastise him more.

“So, you figured out what you wanna buy for the Santa?” She interrupted the silence after a moment.

“Yeah, I did, but I don’t think he would want it anymore.” Clint admitted miserably.

“I think Phil may still surprise you.”

He was almost half asleep when the words registered. He opened his eyes, eyeing her suspiciously. “How do you know about him?”

Natasha laughed. “You threatened half of the school year before you finally found out, who had him. It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Clint crinkled his nose. “You think he knows?”

Natasha just shrugged in response.

“How come you call him Phil?” Clint couldn’t help, but ask petulantly.

“Everybody calls him Phil. He’s like everybody’s bestie. He’s really OK.” In Clint’s opinion Phil was more than OK, but he let the point slide. It didn't matter anymore anyway.

Phil.

Phil had a really nice sound to him. Phillip sounded so regal, but Phil, Phil sounded like someone approachable, like someone Clint could actually have. Clint closed his tired eyes. Phil…he needed talking to Phil…he really needed talking to Phil. He would do so tomorrow.


	4. End is good, all is good

          The problem with his plans, Clint realized, was, that they seemed like the best idea during the night, but somehow lost the charm in the morning. Suddenly, talking to Phil seemed like a stupid idea. He could barely move in the morning, because his ankle was incredibly painful, just like the rest of him. It felt like his head was the size of a balloon plus he had stuffed nose and his throat was scratchy. He looked so pitiful that Nick actually took a day off and drove him to hospital. There, as if his day wasn’t shitty enough, he got scolded twice, first for getting sick and then for aggravating his ankle. Luckily, his x-rays turned out all right, so Nick drove him back home in a slightly better mood.

Once at home, Clint thankfully crawled back into his bed, where Nick might or might not have kissed Clint’s brow - the memory was hazy as Clint succumbed to achy, feverish sleep for the rest of the day.

He was only woken up to get some soup and meds into him. He promptly fell asleep soon after and woke up in the evening. Even though he didn’t feel much better, he hobbled to the TV, where he settled down with the family laptop to order his Secret Santa with blurry eyes. He only started watching a movie, but his tiredness overwhelmed him not 5 minutes into it.

The next day, the temperature didn’t get much lower, but Nick threatened that if he won’t eat the soup, he would feed him and Clint was quite certain he wanted to avoid that fate, so he sipped it in small amounts as quickly as his raw throat allowed. As he struggled with it, Nick remarked. “Your friends were asking about you.”

Clint blinked at him owlishly, but didn’t say anything, because talking actually still hurt too much. “Maybe you should check the phone. And I also directed your order for Santa to Coulsons, it came in the morning.”

Clint did groan this time and immediately regretted it.

“Just check your phone and let them all know you’ll live. The constant beeping gets on my nerves. And I’m too ugly to be your secretary.”

Clint nodded, but actually fell asleep while writing a text message to Tony.

He woke up to Nick shaking his shoulder. Clint blinked his crusted eyes open and yawned. He still felt like shit, but it was actually much better than before.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Nick said simply, while Clint stared at him stupidly. “It’s Friday evening and you have a visitor.” Nick supplied patiently, waiting for his brain to actually come online.

“Is it Tony?” Clint croaked out and winced, because his voice still sounded terrible.

“No, and blow your nose,” Fury informed him unhelpfully. “I’ll bring you meds and tea.”

Clint nodded, not risking talking again, since it hurt too much. He looked towards the door where…GOD! stood Phil Coulson and stared at him sheepishly.

Clint immediately realized that he hadn’t showered in days, smelled disgusting, looked like curdled yoghurt, his eyes were repulsively crusted, his nose was probably snotty, his breath was horrible and in general, he hadn’t felt less human in his whole existence.

“Well. They didn’t lie, you’re really sick.” Phil said from the doorway.

Clint nervously shuffled in his nest of blankets. “Yeah,” he croaked out and his voice broke in the middle.

Phil winced. “Sounds painful. How’s the leg? I saw you limp away.” _That_ day, Clint’s brain filled in sadistically.

Clint shrugged, because talking really wasn’t an option. “It’s better, no lasting damage. X-rays turned out fine.” Said Nick, bringing a tray of cookies, tea and meds. He put it all down on the coffee table in front of Clint and beckoned Phil to come in. Phil nodded and walked over to Clint, still studying his face. Then he followed Nick with his eyes, until his guardian was out of the room.

“You’re an idiot,” Phil said when he thought that Fury was out of earshot, but booming laughter from the kitchen had proven otherwise.

“I like him!” came a loud shout and both Clint and Phil cringed, because…awkward.

“Your…dad seems pretty cool.” Phil mumbled.

“You bet he is!” Nick shouted from the kitchen. Clint whimpered in response, because this was terrible.

“Ok, ok.” Nick came out of the kitchen and winked at Clint. “I’m going to buy…juice. Be back in half an hour,” he said magnanimously, quickly threw on a jacket and left.

“Sorry for calling you an idiot in front of your dad.” Phil said looking oddly tense. Clint didn’t have a clue why, because it was Clint, who had behaved like an asshole.

He shook his hand and tentatively patted a space next to him, moving aside in his nest so Phil could sit comfortably. He was thankful, when Phil reluctantly moved and joined on him on the couch.

“You look miserable, you sure I should stay?” Phil asked cautiously and it was awesome, because nobody had ever cared for Clint’s opinion so much. Clint made sure to show his enthusiasm by nodding vigorously.

“Ok,” Phil said and settled down more comfortably, turning towards Clint.

“So, I got your package,” Phil started conversationally and looked at Clint.

“Ah, sorry, shit, don’t talk. So…I got your Santa and I wanted to say, it was the best gift ever. Thank you.”

Clint beamed at him.

Phil nervously shuffled, looked at his hands folded in his lap and then back at Clint.

“I….also…wanted to ask…if you meant…you know….what was written…in the note.”

Looking at his hands in his lap, Phil couldn’t see how Clint looked at him in panic. What note? He didn’t write any note, it was supposed to be Secret Santa after all!

“Because, I was surprised…’s all. I’d never thought….” Phil babbled, squeezing his hands. And suddenly there was a small card in his hands. He was fiddling with it nervously, while Clint craned his neck painfully to see what was written on it.

_When I see you, it makes my day better._

_Clint_

Clint wanted to head-desk, because only Nick could write such a cheesy note.

Phil probably saw his wince, because he put the card on the table and visibly retreated from Clint further away on the coach. “Yeah, right. I guess you sent it before…” he trailed off. “So maybe I should…” Phil made an attempt to stand up, but before he could get away, Clint’s leg shot up from underneath the blankets and tripped him, causing him to fall back onto the couch.

As soon as Phil landed, he looked confused at him. “Wow, so that’s how you do it on the field. Sneaky.” He said, still stunned. Clint stared at him pleadingly, shaking his head.

For a second, Phil looked perplexed. “You….don’t want me to go?” he asked hesitantly.

Clint shook his head. Phil frowned. “You want me to go?” he tried again, this time even more puzzled. Clint shook his head again, even more vigorously.

“Oh, so you want me to stay?” Phil asked again, with a hint of hope in his voice.

Clint energetically nodded, smiling. Phil shuffled closer, smiling back. “So, I’m really making your day better?” he asked with a small hopeful grin.

Clint blushed and reluctantly met Phil’s eyes, then nodded.

“I thought that you thought I was a wimp.” Phil accused, hurt still seeping through his voice.

Clint looked at him horrified. Then he pointed at Phil’s shirt that said _To boldly go where no man has gone before_. “You like Star Trek?” Phil wrinkled his nose in confusion.

Clint rolled his eyes. He shuffled closed and pointed at Phil’s chest and then underlined the word "boldly" against Phil’s chest. “You, you think I’m bold?” Phil asked awed. “But why?”

Clint pointed at himself and grimaced. “Because I’m not afraid of you?”

Clint nodded. Phil laughed making Clint look at him in surprise. “Because people are afraid of you?” he asked in disbelief. Clint nodded, he knew very well what other people thought of him. That he was a savage, good only for the pitch and some aggressive play.

“Is this because of the last match? Because really, what were you supposed to do? The guy obviously was out to hurt you, the referee was an idiot.” Phil started ranting, his hands flying around him passionately.

Clint stared mesmerized. Not only was Phil the first guy, who didn’t accuse him of aggression, Phil had seen him playing and understood.

Phil stopped ranting and looked at him with a small smile. “Yes, I came to see you play. I like watching you play soccer. And no, I won’t kiss you now, because frankly, you still look miserable and I really don’t want to catch what you have, but come here…” Phil grabbed Clint’s hand and pulled him down towards his lap, making him settle his head there. Then he ran his hands through Clint’s hair. As heavenly as it felt, Clint cringed, well aware for how long his hair wasn’t washed.

Above him, Phil patted his head. “It’s ok, I don’t mind. I like how you don’t care what people think. And I love the new color.”

Clint relaxed, feeling better by every pass of Phil’s fingers through his scalp, gently scratching and massaging. If his throat didn’t hurt so much, he would be purring.

“Thanks for the present. I loved it.”

Clint smiled up at Phil. _Glad you like it._

“Actually, I received the same Captain America collection from my dad, but I’ll keep yours, because it’s definitely much cooler.”

Before Clint could respond to it, he heard the sound of camera going off from the doorway, where he noticed Nick standing with his phone at ready and taking photos of them, smiling like a mad man.

“Ah, what a cute couple you make!” he cooed. Clint cringed, mortified, he wanted to lift himself up to stop embarrassing Phil, but a gentle hand in his hair stopped him. Then Phil continued on his trail through Clint’s hair as he replied cheerfully.

“Yes, I think so too.” He leaned closer to Clint and gave him a soft peck on cheek.

“Just wait, till you get better,” he promised softly. Clint looked at him with wide eyes. Then he beamed at Phil, who grinned back. This was the best Secret Santa ever!


End file.
